Page 81 of Dissection of a Murder
“Perhaps he’s right.”
“Look, I’ve prosecuted and defended countless murder trials. And, let me tell you, most of them aren’t won on the evidence. They’re won on likability and engagement. How you connect with the jury, how you present the case—you know all this. I’ve seen you in court. You’re mesmerizing. Your strength is that people like you, they relate to you. He doesn’t have that. He’s got an attitude, and a jury will see through it.”
“He’s more experienced than me.”
“So what? Let him underestimate you. That means nothing when you’re as good as you are. You just need to believe it.”
“Do you really think so?” I whisper, placing a friendly hand on his arm. He goes to say something, but it’s interrupted by the sound of keys rattling in the front door, followed by a slam.
Demi is back.
I instinctively shuffle farther away from Chester on the sofa. I don’t know why—it’s not as if I was doing anything wrong.
“Oh! Hi, Leila!” she says, stopping momentarily in the doorway to the kitchen. I can tell, immediately, that she does not want me here. The last time I saw her was when she grilled me over the Latin card for Chester’s birthday, and I wonder, briefly, whether Julian has ever seen that side of her. She removes her winter coat and glides her hands over a small, neat baby bump swathed in a virginal white chunky knit. “I didn’t realize that was your car on the drive.”
“Yes, sorry, I just popped over to speak to Chester.”
“I hope everything is all right?” she asks, staring at the state of my face.
“It’s just quite intense at the moment, what with the trial starting on Monday.”
“Yes, I can imagine.” She nods, attempting empathy.
“Congratulations on the baby! What marvelous news! You must be thrilled.”
“Yes, I’m very excited!” she replies, gazing down at her unborn child. “Do you both mind if I make myself a sandwich? I’m starving and, well, baby needs food!”
“Go ahead, darling,” Chester replies, as I excuse myself to fix up my face.
Walking through the house to the loo, I’m reminded of just how much money these two have. It’s ridiculous. As I pass the hallwaywindow, something catches my eye. Something that wasn’t on the drive when I came in.
A red Mini.
I think back to the night someone attempted to break into our house and how, minutes later, a red Mini whizzed down the road. I’m right about this. I know I am. I’ve got Chester on my side, and now I need to get what I really came for, because I sure as hell didn’t come here for comforting words.
Spending a few minutes longer in the toilet than I would have done, I sit, thinking.
I need to get under Demi’s skin.
One thing about her is she needs to portray herself as being the friendly, sweet type in front of her husband. She learned quickly that he’s only prepared to finance her lifestyle if she plays a certain role.
She’s an actress.
Let’s see how she performs under pressure.
They’re sitting together on the sofa when I walk back into the dining room. I can tell they’re talking about me because the room is full of whispers.
“Sorry for hijacking your evening like this,” I say quietly.
“Please don’t apologize,” Demi says, curling her feet up onto the sofa and elegantly taking a bite from a chicken salad sandwich (on wholegrain bread, naturally). Her phone sits on the armrest next to her. “I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under.”
“Look, if I tell you both something, can you please promise you won’t tell Julian?”
“Yes, of course.” They both nod.
“I’ve been receiving threats. Varying in severity, but enough to be classed as criminal activity,” I tell them, beginning to cry.
“Jesus Christ!” Chester says. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
